


All Because of You

by blackkat



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Bromance, Captain!Ichigo, M/M, Pining, friendship fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1275901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Seireitei gets a new captain, Yumichika gets a new drinking partner, and Ikkaku and Renji get jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm not broke but you can see the cracks

**Author's Note:**

> Ikka/Yumi was actually one of the very first slash pairings I ever shipped, and Ren/Ichi was one of the second. Therefore, why not combine them? Also, I have a thing for canon AUs and captain!Ichigo, so I'm tossing a bunch of my favorite tropes in a fic and shaking. Expect one more chapter, maybe two—I'm not looking to write an epic, just a self-indulgent bit of angsty friendship-and-unrequited-longing fluff. Happy ending, though, I promise. 
> 
> (Another U2 title, as is my wont. This time it’s my Yumichika headcanon song, _All Because of You_ from _How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb_.)

Normally, Yumichika is more than happy to keep up with Ikkaku drink for drink, but right now it feels like things are weighing on him, like all the secrets he’s accumulated over the years are conspiring to crush him. Simply put, he’s just not in the mood.

Besides, he’s not the only one skulking in the corner tonight.

Kurosaki Ichigo, newly instated captain of the Fifth Division, the first shinigami to be promoted to captain right after his death, is seated across the table from him, sipping his sake slowly and watching Ikkaku and Renji humiliate themselves on the other side of the room. Yumichika studies him for a moment, surveying the easy, confident way he holds both himself and his cup, and can't help a small smile. Ichigo is a world away from the awkward, angry boy he was in his teenage years—not that those are far behind him, really, in terms of length of time. But in temperament and attitude, he’s _galaxies_ away.

“You're smirking,” Ichigo needles without looking at him. “Stop it, it’s creepy.”

Yumichika huffs at him, folding his arms across his chest and offering up the pout that makes Ikkaku cave like wet cardboard. “I _was_ just admiring the way you fill out your haori,” he says haughtily. “But if that’s the unbeautiful way you go about responding to compliments, I won't bother.”

Ichigo doesn’t smile—he _never_ smiles, and while it’s entirely unbeautiful, Yumichika has come to accept it as one of the man’s major flaws—but there's a certain up-turn to one corner of his mouth that suggests he _might_ someday. With enough work, perhaps. “You're lying,” the new captain parries, but his eyes are amused in a way that says he doesn’t mind. “Besides, Ikkaku’s more your type, right?”

Damn the man for being so observant. The pout fades away, and Yumichika sinks a little lower in defeat. It’s hardly the first time someone has implied that his relationship with Ikkaku isn’t exactly chaste, but here and now, with Ichigo, he hasn’t the strength to deny that he _wants_ it to be what they think it is. Also, Ichigo manages to combine being supremely perceptive with being an absolute thickheaded moron, and it’s always fascinating to observe. “That obvious?” he asks with a faint wince, hoping that the answer will be ‘no’, but not expecting much. Ikkaku’s got a thing for busty beauties, and there's a new one in the Eighth who’s making him drool at inopportune moments. It’s disgusting, and ugly, and Yumichika's wanted to claw some eyes out for _weeks_ now.

Surprisingly, Ichigo doesn’t immediately confirm his fears. Instead, he regards Yumichika for a long moment, brown eyes warm and a little sympathetic. At length, he shakes his head. “No,” he answers carefully, clearly picking his words—and that’s also new, another thing that will take time to adjust to. Yumichika's used to Ichigo stomping right in where angels fear to tread. “I think…most people here have been around you both too long. They're used to seeing you through their own assumptions.”

That’s rather liberating to hear, and Yumichika will forever deny that he slumps a bit in relief, but that’s exactly what he does. “So unbeautiful,” he huffs, but his heart isn’t in it. From the way Ichigo’s looking at him, he notices that, too. Still, there's no pity in his eyes as he nudges Yumichika's sake closer to him and then raises his own.

“Toast?” he asks, and maybe it isn’t _cheerful_ , but there's a certain amount of wry humor to it that makes Yumichika sit up straight again.

“To?” he inquires, even as he lifts his own cup, because not wanting to get drunk with Ikkaku and not wanting to get drunk _period_ are two _entirely_ different things. Yumichika is simply the former—he’s never in his life been the latter, when faced with the opportunity.

Ichigo snorts self-deprecatingly, but says, “To pining.” At Yumichika's blank look of shock, he tips his head at where Renji is draped, giggling and completely plastered, over a long-suffering Kira. When Yumichika manages to drag his gaze back, eyebrows very nearly touching his hairline, Ichigo just shrugs and offers, “I get the whole ‘best friends’ thing, really.”

They're a sorry pair, and Yumichika can't help but laugh, bright and real, for the first time what he knows is far too long. He lifts his cup again, still giggling, and Ichigo does the same, eyes crinkled faintly with shared mirth.

“To pining,” they intone together, mockingly solemn, then clink their cups and down their drinks.

“More?” Ichigo asks, already rising to his feet.

“Lots,” Yumichika agrees, and feels like the night’s finally looking up.

 

Somehow, they're still (mostly) sober when the night ends, the barman kicking them all out with a disgusted growl. Ikkaku and Renji are largely unconscious, clinging to each other like teddy bears in the dusty street and drooling all over. Yumichika spares them half a glance as he anchors an arm over Ichigo's shoulders, careful of the monstrous cleaver that is Zangetsu, and steels himself for the long trek back to the Eleventh. It makes him feel a bit better that Ichigo, also slightly unsteady on his feet, returns the favor.

“Bastards,” the captain mutters, carefully skirting the two wasted men.

“Unbeautiful morons,” Yumichika agrees, far more cheerfully than he might have done a few hours ago, picking his way down the street in the faint light of the lamps.

There's a few minutes of comfortable silence between them, easy as they walk, and then Yumichika asks curiously, “Do you like being a captain?” He’s been wondering for a while now, because even with Ichigo's maturity and reserve, he’s still _Ichigo_ , and there will always be a part of him that’s wild and headstrong and reckless—not exactly prime leadership material.

Ichigo hesitates for a moment, and then huffs out a soft breath. “Mostly,” he allows, even though he sounds like the admission is being dragged from him. “Everything but the paperwork and the meetings, really. I need a lieutenant, but after Hinamori…” He trails off with a grimace. “No one in the Fifth wants the job.”

Yumichika considers that for a moment, hardly even noticing when they bypass the Eleventh Division entirely and head towards the Fifth’s barracks. “I can help with the paperwork,” he offers, surprising himself even as his brain seizes the idea gleefully, mouth running away with him as he adds quickly, “But in return, teach me bankai.”

(Because Yumichika is used to hiding, used to keeping secrets that he’s been _forced_ to keep, that he can't control. But this, this will be a secret he _chose_ , not something thrust upon him by fate or chance or fuckery like that. _His_. And right now, with Ikkaku weighing heavily on his mind and Ruri’iro Kujaku a lead weight at his side, he needs that so very, very much if he wants to stay sane.)

Ichigo doesn’t immediately shoot the idea down, but he doesn’t leap on it, either. Yumichika looks over to see sharp brown eyes on him, judging and weighing, and tries to meet them steadily. There's a weight to Ichigo's gaze, something that makes Yumichika remember just how damned powerful this lean young man is, just what kinds of monsters he’s gone up against. Because while the captains and lieutenants went up against Aizen’s followers, his soldiers, Ichigo hurled himself headlong at the very madman in question, the madman and the Hogokoyu, and emerged victorious. Scarred and battered and not without cost to himself, perhaps, but victorious nevertheless.

“Sleep on it,” Ichigo says at last, guiding them through the Fifth’s gates and into the main building. “Make that offer sober and we’ll see.”

He leads Yumichika down a long hall and slides open a door at the end, then steps inside. Yumichika follows, taking in the room with curious eyes. It’s neat, neater than he expected, but then again he remembers Ichigo's bedroom in the world of the living, not a single book out of place and everything carefully maintained. This place is the same way, clean and open. There's a shoji door leading out to a small garden, standing open to let in the night breeze, and Yumichika can see glimmers of moonlight reflecting off water near the center—a koi pond, most likely.

“Beautiful,” he offers, because it feels like he should.

Ichigo snorts softly, shrugging out of his haori and carefully hanging it in the closet, then unabashedly stripping off his shihakusho. “Yeah,” he says, a faint, pleased tilt to his lips. “It’s home.” He rummages in the depths of the closet for a moment, then emerges with two yukatas. “You sleeping here?”

“Apparently.” Yumichika studies Ichigo in the moonlight, taking in the long, lean lines of his body and the curve of his impressive musculature. Such a ridiculously big sword is good for something, apparently. His hair’s grown out, a little shaggy around the edges, but it suits him, and the lines of his face in the half-light really _are_ beautiful, elegant and entirely masculine in the same moment that they're striking.

It would make sense for Yumichika to be attracted to him, for him to want this boy-turned-man with his power and fire and drive, his ease with himself and his unconscious authority and his martial grace. But even now, with the single futon between them and all of Ichigo's tanned skin visible in the moonlight as he pulls on his yukata, the only thing Yumichika wants is a big, dumb, bald thug with no social graces and the temperament of a mangy stray dog. He has to laugh a little at himself, pressing a hand over his eyes. At this point, it’s either laugh or cry, and Yumichika has never been able to cry beautifully.

“Why now?” he asks, equally to himself and Ichigo. “I've lived with this for _decades_ , and _now_ it becomes too much to bear?”

Gentle fingers on his shihakusho startle him, and he drops his hand to meet Ichigo's quietly compassionate gaze. There's steel in it, though, some hardened core of fire and strength and blazing determination. “It happens that way,” the captain says, sliding Yumichika's uniform off with entirely impersonal hands—a friend’s touch, more than a lover’s. “Everything builds until it’s got nowhere else to go. You have to either give in to it or get over it, at least until the next time it happens.”

One look at Ichigo makes it clear which method of coping he chooses.

Brown eyes meet violet, and then Ichigo says, “I’ll ask the old man about having you as my acting lieutenant. We can start training whenever you're ready.”

With warmth spreading through his chest, Yumichika takes the offered yukata and slides it on, belting it loosely. Ichigo is already settling down on the futon, tossing the covers back in clear invitation, and Yumichika can't even comprehend how they got from being passing acquaintances to _this,_ but the mere thought of sharing a bed with someone, even to simply sleep, is overwhelmingly lovely. He sinks down onto the mattress with a long sigh, rolling just a bit closer to Ichigo's heat. The captain snorts a little at him, but slides over nevertheless, tucking himself up against Yumichika's side as though they’ve done this countless times before.

Their foreheads are almost touching, black and orange hair entwined on the single pillow, and Yumichika lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes, giving in to sleep more easily that he has in a very long while.

 

The first light of dawn through the east-facing door wakes Yumichika, because he’s always been a morning person. From the faint stirrings of the body in his arms, Ichigo is apparently the same way. Brown eyes flutter open as the captain rolls onto his back, stretching gracefully, and then sits up. There aren’t as many lines around his eyes this morning, and though that could be because it’s still early, Yumichika would like to think it’s for the same reason that he feels so incredibly refreshed, far more so than usual.

“Breakfast?” Ichigo asks as he rises, already stripping off his yukata and starting to pull on his uniform.

“Certainly.” Yumichika is glad he isn’t the only one reluctant to leave this bit of peace behind, so he nods, sliding out from under the blanket and picking up his own uniform, wrinkling his nose at it. Yesterday’s clothes seem to be his only option, though, since Ichigo is both taller and more muscular than he is, and his clothes will likely make Yumichika look as though he’s playing dress-up with a parent’s shihakusho. _So_ unbeautiful.

They leave together, flash-stepping past the startled eyes of the Fifth’s early risers and out into the street. This time, Yumichika takes the lead, heading for a small food stand he and Ikkaku usually stop at when they're in too much of a rush to cook. There are several shinigami already in line, and they shoot the two men confused glances that are definitely not as subtle as they think they are. Ichigo catches Yumichika's gaze and rolls his eyes expressively, and Yumichika has to smother a chuckle. By the time they get to their divisions, the news that Captain Kurosaki and Fifth Seat Ayasegawa ate breakfast together will be all over Seireitei. Yumichika has always delighted in providing fodder for the gossip mills, though, and apparently Ichigo isn’t as opposed as one would think, because he’s not doing anything to quell the whispers already springing up.

When the stand owner has deposited piles of steaming sweet bean buns in their hands, Ichigo starts walking, and Yumichika falls into step beside him. They meander in peace for a few minutes, no destination in mind, until Yumichika breaks the friendly silence to say, “They're going to make us out to be lovers, you know.”

The boy that Kurosaki Ichigo used to be would have spluttered and turned red, but the man he’s become simply shrugs. “Probably,” he agrees, casting a sideways look at Yumichika. “It might be good for getting a reaction from our idiots, you know.”

Yumichika considers that, because he hadn’t before. It’s true, and the worst thing that could happen would be for them to get no reaction at all, which would be just the same as things now stand. There's really nothing to lose. He nods, agreeing, and drops the paper wrapper in a waste bin on the corner. They're close to the Eleventh, and he offers his arm to Ichigo with a coy flutter of his long lashes. “In that case, Kurosaki, care to walk me to work?”

Ichigo snorts at him in a way that Yumichika's come to learn means he’s actually laughing, the repressed bastard, but he slides his arm through Yumichika's and links their elbows. “Why not?” he says with amusement, shaking his head, even as the shinigami passing them on the street turn to stare. “And it’s Ichigo.”

Yumichika hums cheerfully under his breath, guiding them around the corner and towards the Eleventh, only a few hundred meters away. When they come to a halt, he leans over to press a careful kiss to Ichigo's cheek, and though it’s partly for show, his murmured, “Thank you, Ichigo,” is entirely heartfelt.

Ichigo regards him for a moment, eyes crinkled in his version of a smile, and then he returns the gesture, lips surprisingly soft against Yumichika's skin. “No,” he answers, and it’s so very, very kind. “Thank _you_ , Yumichika.”

Then he’s gone, so fast he doesn’t even stir the dust under their feet, too fast to leave even an afterimage behind, and Yumichika smiles to himself as he turns towards his division.


	2. i saw you in the curve of the moon

Of the two of them, Ikkaku is the first to notice that something strange is going on, which—well, the only other option is _Renji_ noticing first, and even Ikkaku likes to think he’s a bit sharper than that.

It starts when he notices one of the new recruits fucking up a basic zanjutsu sequence he _knows_ Yumichika drilled into them all last week. Snorting, he turns around to tell Yumi, a sharp comment on the intelligence of this new batch on the tip of his tongue. But Yumichika isn't there. The spot at Ikkaku's shoulder where he normally stands is empty, and there's not even the faintest trace of that lilac shampoo he uses in the air. Ikkaku closes his mouth and frowns.

“Somethin’ wrong, Ikkaku?” the captain drawls, sweeping past with Yachiru on his shoulder. “You look like you just misplaced your brain.”

That’s actually rather more accurate than Ikkaku cares to admit. He lets his frown deepen, thinking back on the morning, and can't recall seeing Yumichika at any point today. And last night he’d ducked out on their drinking session early, claiming prior engagements.

If that had been the truth, they're engagements Ikkaku is entirely unaware of, and that’s…unsettling. Not that they live in each other’s pockets, but—well, there's a certain level of codependency there, and has been since they were brats growing up together in the Rukongai. That he hasn’t even noticed Yumichika's absence until now is testament to that.

“Er, ya haven’t seen Yumichika this morning, have you, Captain?” he asks, glancing around because he half-expects Yumi to come wandering around the corner at any moment, deep in discussion with Rangiku or someone equally fashion-conscious.

Zaraki pauses and gives him a strange look. “Pretty-boy’s over at the Fifth,” he says after a long moment. “Kurosaki wanted his help with lieutenant work. Seems like the pansies over there won't take the position. Think it’s cursed or something. Ayasegawa offered to help.”

Ikkaku feels his heart thud hollowly against his breastbone. Yumichika hadn’t mentioned anything about that to _him_ , and he’s usually first in line to know when Yumichika's satisfied or excited or in a mood to complain. “But—” he starts helplessly, and then forces himself to stop as a horrifying thought occurs to him. Yumi’s strong. He’s been Fifth Seat as long as Ikkaku's been Third Seat, and everyone knows he might as well be Fourth, what with how no one can beat him to take Fourth in the first place. What if he’s finally decided he wants to move up in the ranks? The Eleventh doesn’t have any room for promotion, and Ikkaku _knows_ that Yumichika would never challenge him, Zaraki, or Yachiru for their places.

That means his only option is a cross-division transfer, and from the sound of it, Kurosaki's more than happy to have him in the Fifth.

Ikkaku's fond of Ichigo—kid’s a fighter, and hella powerful—but if he’s even _contemplating_ luring Yumichika away from the Eleventh, Ikkaku will beat his ass so hard he’ll never sit down again.

Zaraki is still watching him, narrowed eyes sharp. When Ikkaku looks up, only belatedly realizing that his reiatsu is thrashing against his control and his hands are clenched into fists, the captain snorts. “Get lost,” he orders. “Find the fairy and make sure he remembers he’s still a part of this division, yeah? I can't keep Yachiru away from the paperwork much longer.”

“Ken-chan!” the lieutenant objects. “I was making it pretty! Yumichee likes pretty things!”

Zaraki’s snort says quite clearly what he thinks of Yumichika's preferences. Either that or he’s imagining the Fifth Seat’s reaction to his newly decorated paperwork. “Yeah, yeah. Out of my sight, Madarame.”

Ikkaku is very familiar with that tone, so he makes tracks for the Fifth Division, even as his thoughts spin with confusion. Yumi’s never mentioned being unhappy with the Eleventh, and he sure as hell still likes to fight, so Ikkaku can't figure out what the problem could be. Then again, people and their motivations have always been Yumichika's area of expertise. Ikkaku would rather hit first, hit later, and then ask questions about motivation and crap like that after all the bad guys are whimpering on the ground.

But, when he reaches the Fifth Division, it’s to find that he’s not alone in his confusion. Renji's standing in the doorway of the office, looming over an entirely unimpressed sixth seat.

“Out?” the lieutenant demands. “What the hell do you mean, ‘out’? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the idiot’s been freaking _married_ to this division since he first put on the haori. I've seen him outside the office on personal business maybe four times in the last _month_.”

The sixth seat is a skinny, wiry woman who looks like Renji could break her in half with two fingers and a sneeze, but she nevertheless fixes the redhead with a glare cool enough to give someone frostbite. “I’ll thank you to mind how you address our captain, Lieutenant Abarai” she says icily. “And I meant what I said. Captain Kurosaki and Fifth Seat Ayasegawa are _out_ attending to personal matters and will be back after lunch. You are welcome to return then.”

Her tone really doesn’t sound all that welcoming.

With a huff, Renji spins on his heel and stomps past Ikkaku, who debates his options for half a second before following the lieutenant. Renji spares him half a glance and mutters, “Lost yours, too, then?”

Ikkaku grunts an affirmative, pausing to look down the street in both directions. “Which way?” he asks, because like hell he’s going to give up before he gets some straight answers out of Yumichika.

Renji pauses as well, closing his eyes. Ikkaku doesn’t interrupt, because Renji's been training under Captain Kuchiki and is doubtless far more attuned to reiatsu than him. He’ll find them faster.

And, indeed, Renji opens his eyes after only a few heartbeats and turns left, stalking down the street. “Training Ground Nine,” he says shortly, and flickers away in a burst of shunpo, the third seat half a step behind him.

 

Training Ground Nine is something of a rarity within the Seireitei’s walls, an open and grassy field that’s easily the size of a barracks, left to nature and allowed to grow wild as long as it keeps to its borders. The result is beautiful, hills of green-gold grass amongst the white stone of the city, running right up to the wall and pristine in the way that only wilderness can be.

Ikkaku lands next Renji, who glances over at him. The third seat is tight-lipped and looks vaguely unsettled, and Renji expects that’s very much a reflection of how he himself appears. It’s…jarring, almost, to seek Ichigo out and find him gone, to find him _with someone else_. Ever since Ichigo's promotion they’ve been nigh on inseparable, attached at the hip whenever Renji can manage to pry Ichigo out of his division.

But he hasn’t heard anything about a friendship with Yumichika. Not a word, and that’s…not upsetting, maybe, but the next best thing.

And then he steps around the curve of a hill and freezes, _nearly upsetting_ quickly metamorphosing into _fucking enraging_ , because from this position he’s got a perfect view of the pair stretched out on the grass.

Yumichika’s the first one he notices, sitting up with his legs crossed. His top is off, skin and muscles shining sweat-slick in the morning light and zanpakuto sheathed on the ground beside him. That’s not what has Renji's blood burning, though—no, that honor falls to the other man. To Ichigo, who’s flat on his back, kosode on but undone so it falls to frame his leanly muscled body, head resting squarely in Yumichika's lap. Yumichika keeps dragging his fingers into Ichigo's brilliant orange hair, sliding them through slightly over-long locks turned dark with sweat and then gliding them down over the smooth skin of his throat, the fucking obscene curve of his bared shoulder.

Renji doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more than he does Ayasegawa Yumichika, at that moment.

He _wants_. He wants so fucking badly and Ichigo has never once showed any sign of wanting him in return. For all that the Fifth’s captain is called a hothead, he can be absolutely inscrutable sometimes, and Renji's never picked up so much as a hint of interest in the other man that goes beyond the bounds of friendship.

(Renji himself has always been a coward when it comes to making the first move. He was with Rukia, right up to the point that he was placed firmly into the zone of _friends_. He was with Izuru, back in the Academy after Rukia left. And since then, right up until that rainy even in the human world that he met Ichigo, his only thought was for advancing, for getting better as quickly as possible. And now—and now, he _will not_ let it be the same.)

Before can even _think_ to stop himself, Renji snarls low in his throat and strides forward. He doesn’t grab for Ichigo, much as he wants to seize that deceptively delicate wrist and drag the captain to his feet, to use his greater height and mass to drag Ichigo away where _fucking Yumichika_ can never touch him again. Instead, he picks up Zangetsu and growls, “We need to talk, Ichigo.”

Doesn’t even bother to wait for a response as he stalks away, back towards the winding roads around the training ground.

There's a startled yelp and a shout behind him, a hurried, “Sorry, Yumichika, later,” that makes his blood simply burn hotter with rage, and then a quick-time set of footsteps trailing him. When Ichigo catches up, there's an annoyed scowl on his face, and he’s pulling his top closed as he glares at his friend. “What the hell, Renji? I get _maybe_ an hour off in the middle of the day and you're going to make me run around the freaking Seireitei?”

It’s on the tip of Renji's tongue to make a scathing comment about quickies where anyone can see, but instead his temper snaps with a nearly audible crack. He drops Zangetsu, whirls around to grab Ichigo's shoulders, and all but throws Ichigo against the white stone of the wall. “ _Fuck you_ , Ichigo,” he spits. “So you’ll fuck someone who you barely even know but it never _once_ occurs to you to ask _me_?”

Ichigo's features—fine, elegant, almost on the edge of feminine where he takes after his mother, and _fuck_ but Renji can see why Yumichika, with the highest standards in the Seireitei, took him to bed—twist with confusion, and he asks, “To ask you if I can fuck Yumichika?”

Renji snarls, deep and animalistic, aching and angry, and answers that the best way he knows how. He lunges forward, slamming his whole body right up against Ichigo's and fastening their mouths together.

It’s hot and wet and desperate, Ichigo coming alive under his hands, and the kiss is just as much a fight, a competition, as anything else between them. Ichigo pushes and Renji pushes back, uses his size to his best advantage and _burns_ with want and frustration and jealousy, because it’s one thing to watch Rukia pine after Kaien, but it’s another entirely to watch Ichigo sit there and _fucking lounge_ in another man’s lap.

Then there's a hand on his chest, shoving him back, and Ichigo growls, “What the _fuck_ , Renji?”

“You _never noticed_ ,” Renji spits back, anger overcoming sense. “If I had _ever_ thought you were interested I’d have had you facedown over your desk the first day you were legal. Hell, I’d have shanghaied all your stuff and moved you into my apartment that day, bastard. But you never _looked_.”

“You _idiot_.” Ichigo sounds entirely fed up. “Moronic baboon-faced _monkey brain_! _You never noticed either!_ ”

Ah. Well. That’s…

Renji's brain short-circuits just a little bit, but that’s just fine.

He dives back in for another kiss, regardless.


	3. i was born a child of grace

The first time Ikkaku sees him, he’s entirely convinced Yumichika is a girl.

(Prolonged acquaintanceship does not discourage this belief.)

In his own defense, Ikkaku is just a brat at the time, barely fifteen, and far more accustomed to the rough and dirty bandit type than anything else, given the district he lives in. Even then he’s a fighter, rough and tumble and underhanded, with a love of violence and a thirst for blood that means most people stay emphatically out of his path. Probably better that way and all, given what happens to most vaguely nice-looking kids there, and hair or not, Ikkaku knows he’s not entirely ugly.

But then, one day, he’s wandering the streets of the tiny, filthy collection of shacks that dares to call itself a town, and comes across three big men cornering… _something_ in an alley.

Being as he is, Ikkaku, of course, stops to see if it’s a fight he can get in on.

Instead, what he sees is a pretty little slip of a thing, just a little younger than himself, clad in a deep blue yukata with a pattern of dark purple flowers, long black hair falling loose and disheveled around a pale and truly lovely face. A slim, beautiful girl, he thinks, and she’s only made prettier by the wakizashi in her hand, well cared for and shining dangerously. There's no fear on her face, no hesitation as she darts forward and lashes out with a fair amount of skill, nearly gutting the largest of the men in front of her.

Ikkaku—because as long as there's a fight on the line, he’s (more or less) a gentleman—shouts, “Hey, shit-face, over here!” and chucks a rock at the slightly skinner thug’s head. The man yelps, spins, and goes for Ikkaku with his bare hands and a promise of murder in his eyes. More than ready, Ikkaku meets him with a vicious grin and a brutal uppercut.

By the time he’s done with his opponent, the girl has finished off both of hers, and is wiping the blood off her sword with a scrap of her victim’s clothing and a look of faint distaste on her pretty features. There's more blood splattered over her face, drops of it that she doesn’t seem to care about in the least, and Ikkaku is impressed despite himself. After a moment’s thought, he rummages around in his pockets and comes up with a square of mostly clean cloth his last meal was wrapped in, and steps forward, holding it out.

The girl looks up at him, revealing large violet eyes, the almost arresting color framed by long, thick lashes and filled with a haughty sort of confidence. One look and Ikkaku can feel his teenaged heart all but explode with unfamiliar emotion.

 _This must be what true love feels like_ , he thinks dazedly, and only just manages to wave the scrap of cloth at her.

“Here,” he says gruffly, because Cupid’s arrow to the ass or not, he’s not _really_ a gentleman, and never will be. “You're beautiful enough without all the blood.” Not that it takes away from her looks or anything, just—

And the raven-haired beauty smiles at him, accepts the cloth, and casually wipes the blood away, then says, in what is most definitely a _boy’s_ voice, “Thank you. It’s nice to finally meet someone with _manners_ in the ghastly district.”

That resounding, echoing _crack_ , Ikkaku thinks, is the sound of his poor adolescent heart shattering into pieces.

 

He learns his lesson from that incident, more or less. No more of the lean, athletic type for him, because when he looks at them he always gets flashbacks to wide violet eyes with a steely glitter of death in them, and Yumichika quickly becomes his best friend in the _universe_ so that kind of thing’s just not okay. Busty is good. Busty is very good, and he very, _very_ rarely goes after brunettes because really, Yumichika is already high-maintenance enough as it is and Ikkaku doesn’t need _more_ of that in his life. He also doesn’t need to look at the girl he’s fucking and compare her to his best friend. That’s just awkward all around.

It’s not like Ikkaku doesn’t know in which direction Yumichika's preferences lie. He does, well enough, because they’ve lived practically in each other’s pockets for almost a century, and that kind of familiarity makes such things hard to hide. He’s had to chase away stalkers and persistent would-be boyfriends before, and Yumi has dragged him out of enough women’s beds that they no longer have anything to worry about from each other in that regard.

And, of course, none of it ever lasts long. His women and Yumichika's men are in and out of their lives in the space of a few weeks, and never longer than that. Ikkaku likes to think it’s an understanding that they share, a knowledge that nothing can compare to their friendship, no matter how good a lay it happens to be. Maybe it’s sappy and ridiculous, but then, Ikkaku's always had some fairly odd notions regarding honor and fighting and friendship. And, of course, Yumichika takes more effort to look after—or even be around, some days—than the neediest girlfriend, and honestly, Ikkaku would rather put his effort into Yumichika than anything else. More payoff, in the end, because Yumichika _gets him_ in a way no broad ever would or could.

He’s never thought about…more. Mostly because as a brat he would have been horrified by the mere implication that he wasn’t an absolute lady-killer, and afterwards he’d just gotten too used to filing Yumichika away under the heading of ‘best friend/battle partner/leech/what-the-god-damn-hell-ever-it’s-Yumichika’. And really, what more has he ever really needed than a strong opponent in front of him and Yumichika at his back?

(Not to say that he doesn’t _notice_ how pretty Yumichika is. He does, obviously, and has ever since they first met. He’s also had to fight off more than one creep with wandering hands who slipped something into a drink or cornered Yumi or tried to pay him for _favors_ , and not just out in the Rukongai, either. Seireitei has its own share of bottom-feeders and losers, and they're drawn to pretty, graceful Yumichika like flies and ants to an ocean of honey.

Honestly, sometimes Ikkaku thinks about just planting a wet one on the man in the middle of a crowded street, simply so he doesn’t have to deal with the sheer _aggravation_ of it anymore. It’s not that Yumichika _needs_ Ikkaku to protect his virtue, either. But…Ikkaku _is_ aware of just what he’s asking Yumichika to do, standing on the sidelines whenever Ikkaku goes into battle, being the one to call for funeral arrangements when things go south. And he’s not a complete bastard who’ll demand something like that without giving anything back.)

So he does creep-patrol, looms menacingly whenever Yumichika feels the need to flirt with people who _obviously_ aren’t even close to his league (not that many people are, granted), and keeps a weather eye out for bastards and people who want to use Yumichika. Yumichika is allowed to use people, but _never_ the other way around. Not while Ikkaku's still breathing, at least.

By all rights, it should be a relief, to see Yumichika finally…settling down. And with a friend, at that. Especially if that friend just happens to be Kurosaki Ichigo, who is strong and dependable and loyal and definitely not a creep.

So…

So why, when he looks at them lying there like that—Ichigo's head in Yumichika's lap, Yumichika's long, elegant fingers in Ichigo's hair, both men sweaty and satisfied and gorgeous in a way Ikkaku is definitely never going to be able to rival—why does it just… _ache_?

Yumichika glides those slim, beautiful fingers over the line of Ichigo's throat, sweeps them over the curve of his bare shoulder, and Ikkaku's temper snarls through him like a wildfire.

Ikkaku doesn't think he's ever hated anyone more than he does Kurosaki Ichigo, at that moment.

But before he can say anything, do anything, there's a sharp and angry growl from beside him, and a moment later Renji is gone and Ichigo is following, looking fit to skin him. All of Ikkaku's attention is on Yumi, though, and the faintly surprised but mostly amused arch of his brows as he watches the man he was just _petting_ chase after their former kouhai. There's no anger, no dismay, no sadness, just—

Ikkaku prides himself on reading Yumichika better than anyone else in the Seireitei, better than anyone else in _existence_ , so he knows he’s not drawing the wrong conclusions, but…what?

“Ikkaku.”

The soft voice draws him out of his confusion, and he glances over to see Yumichika regarding him archly, the amusement clearer now. As always, the bastard gets a kick out of laughing at him. With a frustrated huff, Ikkaku throws himself to the ground next to his friend, scrubbing a hand over his head, and resigns himself to coming at this whole matter head-on, just about the only way he knows how.

“Are ya moving to the Fifth?” he asks bluntly. “As Ichigo's lieutenant?”

There's a long pause, flavored with surprise the way it only rarely is between them—because as good as Ikkaku is at reading Yumichika, Yumichika's a thousand times better at reading him, and it’s faintly satisfying to leave him thrown, for once. Then, with a sigh, Yumichika leans back, pressing the back of a hand to his forehead in a gesture of overly theatrical despair that Ikkaku is entirely too familiar with, after so many years.

“Ikkaku,” he sighs dramatically. “Really, did this not work at _all_? Are you really that much of an unbeautiful _moron_?”

 _This_. This is why Ikkaku is still halfway convinced that Yumichika has spent the last hundred years trolling him and just about everyone else, shared showers and glimpses of his definitely masculine equipment aside. Because surely only a _girl_ is this melodramatic _all the time._

With a scowl, he crosses his arms over his chest and kicks Yumichika in the thigh. “ _Oi_. Answer the question, bastard.”

Yumichika rolls his eyes with a flourish that no one else ever manages to give the gesture. “ _No_ , Ikkaku, I'm Eleventh Division. Do you really think I’d give that up to go to the _Fifth_?” He wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. Ikkaku, they have to be _convinced_ to _spar_. I think Ichigo's the only one with any sort of backbone in the entirety of the division.”

Ikkaku grins, partly in relief, though not entirely. After all, people always seem to forget that Yumichika is absolutely just as bloodthirsty as Ikkaku and the rest of the Eleventh, airs and graces aside. He’s a born fighter, and Ikkaku at least will definitely never forget that their first exchange of words was over blood-splatters. He chuckles and leans back on his hands, feeling some of the tension ease.

“Then…are you and Ichigo…?” He raises a pinky finger, because for some reason the words get stuck halfway up his throat.

It’s no relief at all that Yumichika takes a long minute to answer, and the whole while his face is considering and a little resigned. At length, he shakes his head, black hair swaying and catching the light, and smiles a touch ruefully. “No,” he answers, gaze straying in the direction that Renji went and Ichigo followed. There's been a suspicious lack of fight-sounds, and Ikkaku wonders if they've both gone off in snits or if they're actually working things out.

(Doubtful, that last one.)

Another moment, and Yumichika repeats, “No, we’re not like that,” but…

But this time he’s looking right at Ikkaku when he says it.

Ikkaku is caught entirely off guard, because no one can read Yumichika like he can, and this is…

“Ichigo,” Yumichika says deliberately, holding Ikkaku's gaze, “agreed to teach me how to release my bankai.”

That’s…entirely not what Ikkaku was expecting.

“ _What_?” he demands, feeling himself puff up in indignation. “Yumi, what the hell? Ya coulda asked _me_! I would’ve been happy to teach you!”

Yumichika's mouth tightens in momentary indecision, and then smooths out almost instantly, a light like the one he gets in battle kindling in his eyes. (It’s…exciting, even though it definitely shouldn’t be.) He tips his chin up, squares his shoulders, and rises to his feet. Ikkaku follows him up, uncertain where this is going but willing to play along, and faces him across a single meter of green-gold grass.

“You have a combat-type zanpakuto,” he says, like it’s a challenge. “Ichigo's is a melee-type. His is better suited for training with Ruri’iro Kujaku and myself.”

Ikkaku only has a moment to indulge in his deep, _deep_ confusion, because Yumichika adds, light and airy, “With my kido-type, of course I’d go to him.”

Kido-type.

 _Kido-type_.

But Yumichika, at least as far as Ikkaku is aware, has never used anything even vaguely resembling kido or a kido-based ability in their fights. He blinks, hastily considering the implications, and can only come to one conclusion.

“You _bastard_ , Yumichika,” he snarls, offended right down to his toes. “ _You’ve been holding out on me?_ ”

There's a long moment of stunned silence, the look of complete shock on Yumichika's face something that Ikkaku kind of a little bit sort of relishes, and then Yumi tips his head back and laughs. It’s bright and sweet, warm and full, pouring into Ikkaku like heated honey and filling up all the little cracks and gaps that have started appearing with Yumichika's absence these last few days. He laughs, and laughs, and then he reaches out, still chuckling, and hooks one of those lean, elegant hands around the back of Ikkaku's neck.

“Of course,” he says through his giggles. “ _Of course_ that’s what you’d take offense over. Not the lying, or the fact that I have a zanpakuto that goes against everything our division stands for, but the fact that I didn’t fight you with my _full_ power.”

Ikkaku blinks. Yumichika thought he’d be mad about _that?_ Haven’t they already had the whole discussion about how a person doesn’t exactly choose their zanpakuto? He could have sworn they did, and that he wasn’t even drunk for it, because Hisagi drives them both nuts with his refusal to use his damned sword and actually _fight_. And, kido-type or not, Yumichika's definitely a fighter to the core.

So Yumi’s an idiot, and Ikkaku's definitely going to tell him so. Just…when they stop kissing.

Because that’s new. And…interesting. And maybe just a little addictive, because Yumichika is slender and lean and kind of fits just perfectly against Ikkaku's chest, not too short to kiss easily but not tall enough to make it awkward, and he smells like lilacs and sweat and steel, mouth a challenge and a comfort and a familiar, sweet pressure that manages to be entirely new at the same time. His hair is soft under Ikkaku's fingers, silky when he wraps strands of it around his hands, and those ridiculously long lashes brush his skin as their tongues tangle and spill heat right down into Ikkaku's core.

When they break apart, he’s wide-eyed and a little breathless, and Yumichika is smiling, smug and bright.

“Well?” he demands. “Say something, you graceless oaf.”

But really, Ikkaku's never had much use for words. And there are _certainly_ no words for this, what Yumichika is to him, has always been, and how he’s on the verge of becoming…more, maybe. Or maybe it’s simply what they’ve always been, just…fully realized, now.

So he takes the easy way out. He huffs in exasperation, tugs Yumichika in with one hand in that silken hair, and kisses him again.

No more creep-patrol, then. Or at the very least, creep-patrol from a different standing, and with full permission to kiss Yumichika in full view on a crowded street.

With something like satisfaction, or possessiveness, or maybe happiness bubbling up in his chest, Ikkaku fists both hands in Yumichika's pretty, glossy raven hair and drags him down to the grassy ground.

Work can wait. This is more important.

Far, far more important.


End file.
